


past time

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: non_mcsmooch, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-21
Updated: 2009-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:03:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronon tries his very best to look nonchalant. "It's a traditional Satedan sport."</p><p>From the tiny smile that's hovering around the corners of her mouth, it seems that Amelia is not as easily taken in as Sheppard was, but she's no less game. She tucks the red rag neatly into the back of her sweatpants and turns to face him, bantos stick held lightly in her left hand. "Traditional, huh?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	past time

**Author's Note:**

> For [Cate](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com), who wanted a first kiss. Thanks to [Jenn](http://dogeared.livejournal.com) for betaing.

Ronon tries his very best to look nonchalant. "It's a traditional Satedan sport."

From the tiny smile that's hovering around the corners of her mouth, it seems that Amelia is not as easily taken in as Sheppard was, but she's no less game. She tucks the red rag neatly into the back of her sweatpants and turns to face him, bantos stick held lightly in her left hand. "Traditional, huh?"

"Yeah." Ronon clears his throat. This had seemed like a good idea earlier. "Learnt it a while back." It's technically true: two years is a while back, and if Ronon invented it, that _does_ make it Satedan, in a way. "Earn points by grabbing the other guy's flag, no moves forbidden."

"Okay," Amelia says, and the light flooding in through the gym's stained glass windows makes a prism of her smile.

"Ready?" Ronon asks, but she's already moving—not relying on the bantos rod in her hand but flowing low and liquid underneath his outstretched arm. Ronon pivots to follow her, but she's quicker than him, and a roundhouse kick to the back of his thigh leaves him unbalanced, stumbling, and Amelia plucks the blue rag neatly from the back of his trousers. Her fingers graze against the small of his back for the moment, cool and soft against that strip of skin, and Ronon resolutely doesn't shiver.

Amelia straightens and shakes her hair back from her face. It's pulled back in a pony tail, mostly, but a few stray strands cling to her temples, to her cheeks. She smiles up at him, and holds out the blue cloth to him. "Best two out of three?"

Ronon looks down at it, then up at her, and he knows the moment when he's hesitated for just a little too long—sees the tiny crease of puzzlement in her forehead.

"Ronon?"

_Stupid_, he thinks to himself, and fumbles for something to say; _stupid_, he thinks, because these are the only few hours that he gets to spend alone with her each week, the only time when it's just him and her and a light-filled room in the heart of the city, the time bought with excuses about training and skill-sharing. He shifts nervously from foot to foot; he can't let himself blow this. "It, uh. It gets more difficult after every round. To simulate battle. If you get hurt. So round two, one-handed, then—"

"Ronon?" Amelia steps closer and presses the blue rag into his empty palm, curls his fingers around it. "There doesn't have to be another round."

"Oh." Ronon swallows, disappointment a sharp _click_ in the back of his throat. "Uh. That's okay, if you don't—"

Amelia's tall, but she has to stand on the tips of her toes to kiss him. The curve of her mouth against his feels like a smile shared; the line of her back straight and steady against the palm of his free hand, all warm skin and sweat-damp cotton. She murmurs against his mouth and shifts her stance so that she's closer to him again, kissing him with a care that makes Ronon close his eyes and kiss her back, helplessly.

"Men," Amelia says as she tangles her hands in his dreads and nips at his jawline, the sensitive skin of his throat, her voice all mock-effrontery, "Always making things so _complicated_."

Ronon laughs, deep and belly-shaking, and tips her mouth back up to his; and with each syncopated beat of his heart, Ronon thinks: there doesn't have to be another round. It doesn't have to get more difficult than this, because she's kissing him in the light of a weekday afternoon, because she's a thing yearned for that Ronon can cup between two fragile, flawed hands.


End file.
